'An elegant cold collation from the pastrycook at Ewmouth would be; but I don't see why we should not have a few cold joints. Eh, Cherry?'
'Like our celebrated supper to the Minsterham choir,' responded she.
'You neither of you know what it will lead to,' was the old phrase into which Wilmet relapsed.
'Never mind her,' interposed her husband. 'She is demoralized by regimental déjeûners.'
'It serves you right for dragging me to them,' retorted Wilmet.
'I don't do so to please you, my dear, but because I can't have Major Harewood said to mew up his handsome wife out of sight.'
'I own,' she said, not quite pleased, 'I am afraid of this affair being more expensive than Felix imagines. If it is done at all, it must be done properly.'
'Of course it must,' pronounced Bernard. 'If it is to be a snobbish concern, I wash my hands of it. I shall go off to Jem Shaw out of the way!'
'I'll tell you how to make it snobbish, Bear,' said Cherry. 'To have the very same waiters in the very same cotton gloves, handing about the very same lobster-salad, in the very same moulds, and and tongues in the very same ruffles, with the very same carrot and turnip flowers on them, that have haunted the archæologists at every meal.'
'Bravo, Cherry!' broke in Will. 'Commend me to the unconventional woman!'